The Shallows

by Ingrid Winterbach

  While he was still strong enough to listen, before he slipped into a kind of shadowy half-world in the last weeks, I read to him from, among others, the following books: The Secret Agent and Typhoon by Joseph Conrad. He liked tales of the sea, he said. Moby Dick by Herman Melville. Hours and days on end we spent with Ishmael and Captain Ahab on board that ship. The tale of the white whale engrossed us completely. There was no space for reservations or despair for either of us while the reading was taking place. If it was something like a voyage that we’d undertaken together, I’ll remember it as the most meaningful, the most intimate voyage I have ever in my life undertaken with another person. I was with him when he died.

  Now I have a house in Stellenbosch and money in a trust fund in the bank. My benefactor had, in spite of his illness, summed me up accurately. This was not a woman you left with a pile of money in a bank account. He had once gently touched his finger to the scar of my lip and asked whether I wanted his name, it would entail several benefits – considerable financial benefits – but in the nature of things also problems. (His children had never trusted the harelip with their father.) I gently declined his offer. But I was profoundly touched by his proposal.

  At the beginning, once one afternoon when he was reminiscing – he’d been an influential man, who had among other things served on the university council – he said that in the business world he’d come across plenty of crooked and devious behaviour, but he had seldom met a greater conniver than Dr Marcus Olivier, professor of history.

  *

  After the departure of the meek animal, there is for the time being nothing to keep me in town. I pack a weekend bag. I get into my car. I have been plunged into a sense of loss over the animal, the noble bitch. I take the road to the West Coast. Oesterklip seems like a good destination. Although still a cop-out and a compromise. I want to get out of town. The autumnal beauty of it gives me the creeps. Everything becomes too prettified and pleasing to the eye. I prefer a more stripped environment. If indeed I am fated to be confronted with the nothingness in myself, then let it be in a place without any pretence of abundance and salubrity. I decide on Oesterklip – probably by now already too touristy – because I was there once before on my own. In extremis. At the time there was no appreciable tourist activity. It was winter, the beach was deserted, it stank of kelp. I stayed in the hotel. I was soul-sick with longing for something undefined. The care of a mother? The acceptance of a father? I was soul-sick with the intimation of something unyielding in my psyche. When I walked next to the sea, I did not know what to think. I must have eaten in the dining room, but I don’t remember anything of it. I remember only the hours that I spent lying on my bed in my room. A man approached me in the dining room. Apathetically, I complied. What did it matter to me? We sported in my room. On neither of our parts was there a grain of emotion. Beforehand he showed me some pornographic magazine. Presumably to whet my appetite. I was not particularly interested. I seem to remember that he had colourless eyebrows. I had a strong desire to walk into the ocean, entangled in the stinking kelp, sinking all the way to the bottom, there to find peace as a sea slug. Then after a few days got into my car again and drove back to Stellenbosch.

  At Oesterklip I check into the hotel. Long since zooted up, bearing hardly any resemblance to the place I visited years ago. In the bar a song by Bobby van Jaarsveld is playing. The barman is exuberantly corpulent. At little tables two young couples are sitting tweeting, with quite a few shooter glasses in front of them. The sea is as flat as a hand. My room has floral spreads and curtains. The small space is dominated by a wooden wardrobe, dark, like the rest of the furniture. Overbearing. I look out of the window. From the direction of the parking lot a large, clumsy man comes walking with a box under his arm.

  Eighteen

  That morning Nick had once again to discuss the satanism project with the Karlien girl. Perhaps he should once and for all dissuade her from carrying on with it. She wasn’t making any progress. She’d clearly bitten off more than she could chew. She got no further than the idea of a blanket with a tiger or a leopard on it. She clung doggedly to the photo in You or wherever she’d come across it.

  The previous week he’d unmistakably, for a moment, when she sat down in front of him, got the warm smell of blood. Menstrual blood. Warm and salty, like raw meat, slightly off. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t thought it possible that normal feminine hormonal processes could be consummated in that virtually unsexualised body.

  Did she have anything to show him? (He was not unaware of the ambiguity of his question.) No, she had as in like nothing. And why not? A profound perturbation flitted fleetingly as a shadow across her perfect, vacuous countenance. He explained once again that she needed to consider the project very carefully. There had to be visual coherence and there had to be a concept, an idea, behind it, binding together these visual elements. He had no idea whether his words had made any impression on her.

  It was getting to be quite fresh in the mornings, but Karlien was wearing a short top that exposed her midriff (tanned), and high boots. The little skirt was only barely of a respectable length. She was odourless today; he picked up no scent from her. If he hadn’t smelt her the previous time himself, he’d still have thought of her body as scentless like that of a child. Scentless, hairless, without a trace of sweat or sex. Her countenance as empty and uninscribed as if no ripple of the tides and trials of the world had yet passed over it.

  She’d thought, yes … What had she thought? he asked (with an effort to be patient). She’d thought that like perhaps if she … Karlien, he interrupted her, you can’t carry on in this vein. Chuck away the You or wherever you saw the photo of that blanket. You’re going to look at Goya’s Black Paintings – there you’ll discover something about the representation of all sorts of rituals, satanic worship etcetera – you’re going to look at medieval depictions of hell. You’re going to have another look at the installations of the artists to whom I referred you – even if you look only at Louise Bourgeois’ Red Room and Cell installations. It’s a good start, reflecting on installations – both in terms of form and content. You’re going to reflect on satanism. You’re going to ask yourself what it is about it that interests you, which of its aspects you want to work with. Then you’re going to start assembling the visual elements. You’re going to place the concept of satanism in relation to these visual elements. You’ve been sitting on the satanism idea for weeks now, and you’ve produced hardly anything tangible. Go home, reflect carefully, and come back next week with something concrete. Bring me a worked-out plan on paper. A considered concept, with a clear plan to execute it visually.

  The girl stared at him. Her face was expressionless. Although once again for a few moments a cloud of perturbation flitted across her face. He had absolutely no idea whether anything he’d said had resonated in any way with this kid.

  *

  In this zooted-up hotel I’m not going to stick it out. Not with the floral spreads and the overbearing wooden wardrobe and the overcrowded bar with Bobby van Jaarsveld and the tweeting couples. One day and one night is all I can stand. Onwards tomorrow, in search of the last remaining wilderness. Google the coastline: Frederiksbaai, Gonnemanskraal, Velddrif. I have lunch in the tarted-up dining room with a group of Oriental tourists, the tweeting couples, the big man with the box that he’d carried under his arm from the parking lot now placed next to him on the table. (Mysterious. What kind of treasure could he be guarding in it?) It sounds as if he has trouble speaking, I heard as he addressed the waiter. After lunch I lie down on the bed in my room. In the late afternoon I walk on the beach. No more stinking kelp here. On the horizon two ships. Before dinner I have a drink in the bar. A depressing space, and not the music of my choice: Captain hoist the sails/ Over many miles/ Captain she is mine/In the rising sun/ On the hori-zon … There is some kind of sporting event on the giant television set in the corner. The man with the box is staring at it transfixed; his hand protectively on the box next
to him. (What kind of treasure requires that kind of safekeeping?)

  In another corner sits a man in a hat, it’s the first time I’ve noticed him. A lean, bony face and fervid eyes, staring fixedly at me. I can read the signs. He’s going to approach me sooner rather than later. One of those for whom the trace of a harelip – perhaps of any conspicuous scar, in fact – is an erotic stimulus. And who can hardly contain himself at the very thought of the possibility of a cleft palate.

  *

  And indeed it’s not long before he comes up to my table and asks whether I mind if he joins me. I don’t fancy this at all, but he doesn’t leave me much of an opening. Could he get me a drink? No thanks, I say, I don’t drink. Religious objections? he asks. Yes, I say. Seventh Day Adventist.

  And what is the name of the Adventist? he asks.

  Magdalena Cloete, I say. He is no more going to give me his real name than I’m going to give him mine. I don’t have the slightest desire to exchange personal details and assorted chit-chat. I know without the shadow of a doubt that I have to get up now and clear out. The man is not to my taste.

  He leans across the table with extended hand: Vincenzo Anastagi, he says, but you can call me Vince for short.

  I shake his hand briefly. It’s warm and dry. Something about him reminds me of Joseph Beuys. The same hollow cheeks, high cheekbones, bony nose, fucked-up gaze. He’s removed his hat and his hair is close-cropped, convict-like.

  ‘And what brings you to these parts, Magdalena?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ I reply.

  My lack of enthusiasm does not deter him in the least. He has only just returned from abroad, he says. He’s on his way to visit his birth farm in the interior, in the Eastern Transvaal, apparently now Mpumalanga. The farm is called Darkwaters. It will be a nostalgic return to a meaningful place from his past. The almost twenty years that he’s been abroad feel like a lifetime. You never escape the hankering, he says. There’s always the desire to return to the beloved country.

  (Something about the man’s way of talking and about his gaze puts me on my guard. I still don’t know why exactly. I don’t believe a single word he says. I feel intuitively that I must reveal as little as possible about myself. I must give this man not so much as the tip of my little finger. And I note how his gaze every so often lingers caressingly on my lip.)

  He’s returned to the country on business, he says. Unfinished business. But first he has to visit the farm, and on the way there go and look up an unfortunate family member who has ended up in an institution. A high-security psychiatric institution on the other side of Moorreesburg. A cousin of his. As children they used to play together. Then one day the cousin lost his marbles with a vengeance. It seems as if there’s a streak running through his family, he says, a lamentable tendency to psychical disturbance.

  I’ve still not said anything. I find this conversation highly suspect. Why dish up all these things to a stranger? The man has an agenda. It’s not for nothing that he’s sitting here talking to me. It almost sounds as if he’s rehearsing some part or other.

  ‘Would you be interested,’ he says abruptly, ‘in exploring the country with me for a few days?’

  This I had not seen coming. It wrong-foots me totally.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘thank you. I’m expected back in Stellenbosch soon.’

  The moment I’ve said this I realise it was a mistake.

  ‘Oh, really,’ he says, ‘Stellenbosch. That lovely little village. Home of the recently deceased artist Buks Verhoef. What a tragedy, don’t you think?’

  Willy-nilly, I feel the blood flushing up in my neck and face. (It must be the unexpected recollection, in this improbable context, of the dying Buks in my arms.) Of course the man notices it immediately.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you knew him? A personal friend of yours?’

  I just shake my head in denial. Now I’ve had enough. ‘Please excuse me,’ I say, getting up.

  ‘We could have an exceptionally pleasant journey together,’ he says as I turn around to leave. I can’t make out whether he’s saying it in dead earnest or in jest. The whole situation has flustered me so much that I can’t get away quickly enough. I can feel him watching my retreat.

  I hurry to my room. I sit down on my bed. My image is reflected in the wardrobe mirror. I look bedraggled, with the bewildered expression and the burning cheeks. When I am upset, like now, the scar turns red, and becomes more conspicuous. Just as I thought – most probably somebody with an interest in the deviant. It was clear from the manic stare, from the nature of the conversation. Exactly the kind who would hit on me. And a fucking swindler to boot, somebody I wouldn’t trust as far as you can trust your hand in the dark. I know, I felt it very clearly. And he’s not had enough by a long shot. I can’t deal with that. I’m upset that I’m so upset. I’m leaving tomorrow morning before sunrise. Destination as yet unknown. As long as I can get away from here as fast and as inconspicuously as possible.

  That evening I nevertheless – in order to calm myself– continue writing my monograph on the Olivier brothers. I write:

  ‘The Olivier brothers, Joseph and Benjamin, identical twins, are regarded as modern masters of the stop-action film. For this they use puppets, which they make themselves – mainly carved from wood – and sometimes also real figures. It is especially the unusual spaces in which these puppets are filmed that are characteristic of the brothers’ style. They were initially influenced by the surrealists but over time they developed their own characteristic voice and style. The short films, seldom longer than twenty minutes, are based on, among others, the tales of Franz Kafka, Bruno Schulz, Robert Walser, Jorge Luis Borges and the contemporary Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño. Because the films, with a few exceptions, feature no dialogue, music is an important component. Among the music they use are works by Stockhausen, Terry Riley, Alban Berg and Laurie Anderson, as well as Jewish and Greek folk music (rebetika), and a considerable amount of contemporary electronic music, such as that by the Georgian Natalie “TBA” Beridze.

  ‘They were trained at an art school in Cape Town, South Africa, as painters and graphic artists, not as film-makers. After leaving the country, they gradually started incorporating, apart from the graphic, also filmic (cinematographic) and theatrical (scenographic) elements into their work.

  ‘Little is known about their personal lives. After their studies they went to London, where they have been resident since the mid-nineties. The brothers have collaborated over the years, seldom appear in public, and very rarely grant interviews.

  ‘The work of the Olivier brothers is preponderantly dark, with an ominous tonality and a strong underlying obsession with violence, with the erotic and with the obscene.’

  Thus I start to establish the most important themes and motives of the monograph on the brothers.

  *

  In the late evening I do after all risk having a last drink in the bar. I didn’t have supper in the dining room – I was scared the hollow-cheeked fellow would be lying in wait for me. So now I’m hungry as well as thirsty. I am very cautious, I first spy out the lie of the land. If I were to spot the man, I would promptly turn on my heel. He upset me. I’m still not quite sure why. It’s not as if I’m not used to being accosted. It’s also not as if I’m not used to fighting my corner. But there was something in his gaze – something manic and obsessive that did not appeal to me. And I saw how his gaze slid caressingly over my lip, and lingered there. And it’s not as if he made any effort to disguise it.

  I sit down at one of the little tables outside. The moon is shining on the water. I sit so that I can keep an eye on the door. There aren’t all that many people left in the bar at this time of night. A few hardened drinkers at the counter. In the far corner, the man with the box. And it’s not too long before he comes up to my table outside with the box in his hands. May he sit down? He talks with difficulty – some speech defect? The vestige perhaps, as in my case, of a cleft palate. A big head, high, square f
orehead, large face, of which the individual components look as if they’ve been joined together arbitrarily – a more acceptable version of a Frankenstein face. Friendly, but also somewhat concerned of expression. I wait for him to speak, but he places the box in front of us on the table and looks at the sea.

  Since I don’t have any desire to make small talk either, we sit in silence. Unlike the other man, the hollow-cheeked swindler, I don’t find this man’s presence disquieting. In fact, I find his taciturn presence reassuring. I’m drinking whisky, he’s drinking something in a tall glass that looks like tonic. After we’ve sat like that for a long time, he suddenly produces from the large box a smaller box which he places next to the larger one. This second box, I note, has holes in it. So then there must be an insect or several insects inside. I lean forward slightly to sniff for a clue as to the contents. I close my eyes. The smell of mulberry leaves. With my ear against the box I hear it – the almost inaudible sound of munching worms.

  ‘Silkworms?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  For a long time we sit like that, in companionable silence, the soft sound of the silkworms drowned out by the rushing of the sea, before I get up, wish him a good night, and go to my room.